


Soliloquy

by mackielars



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackielars/pseuds/mackielars
Summary: Elliott mulls over his past, present, and his uncertain future as a writer.  He thought living in a cabin by the beach and living alone was enough to give him the spark that he always sought after, but it seems that life has other plans for him.
Relationships: Elliott/Female Player (Stardew Valley), Elliott/Male Player (Stardew Valley), Elliott/Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 54





	Soliloquy

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Elliott’s 2 hearts event. Artistic liberties were taken.

###### 

**Soliloquy**

**| so•lil•o•quoy || \ sə-ˈli-lə-kwē \**  
_(noun)_

> 1\. the act of talking to oneself  
>  2\. a poem, discourse, or utterance of a character in a drama that has the form of a monologue or gives the illusion of being a series of unspoken reflections  
> 

* * *

* * *

Elliott had always spent a lot of time disconnected from the world so he could stay in his. While he preferred the sanctity of his mind, the demands of his parent’s high-class status demanded a certain kind of decorum that branded a mild-mannered personality within him. He embodied the perfect gentleman and appropriated the persona as truly his own, as it made it easier to evoke preferred responses from others. There are those, however, who found it understandably facetious. He did not mind this. It was their word against his and his own voice and thoughts far better suited his mind. It was better that way.

He had always fancied himself as a romantic in a poetic and existential way. A writer, if one would allow. His career choice disappointed more than one important person in his life but he tried to keep his thoughts away from such topics. There is, after all, solace in the ambiguity of writing. In writing, there are no fancy business meetings and double entendre-d verbal landmines to gingerly tread upon, lest he wanted to. In his mind, he is in a theater as a spectator and a director of stories that is both within his grasp and beyond it. Within its enclosed corners the actors and scenes flowed into his mind like the endless waterfall that wonderfully weighed his clothes and misted his sheets back at their little cottage retreat in the Leslen forest.

Ah, water…

Elliott had always been drawn to water. Ever since he was a child he always found water to have an uncharacteristic allure to him. It was an amusing juxtaposition to his fiery rustic-brown hair and the infamous suppositions behind it. Much like the creation of wonders through fire and water, he found it appropriate to see himself as some form of mold for these ideas. Oftentimes he would dip portions of himself in the metaphorical azure wonder to watch the steam rise above his form and fizzle his creations onto a new curious shape. However, there were times where he would stay by its banks and simply ponder upon the shifting shapes and reflections on the surface. Its familiar liquid sounds were always a welcomed background in his mind. Thus he followed the mental flow of ambition onto a cascade that led him down to a cozy little beach cottage in Pelican town.

“In the sunken teal sky, he dribbl- no, drip. No, drain..?” Elliott groaned and leaned back on his velvet-covered writing chair. He had pored over the same paragraph for the past week and the thoughts and words continued to escape him. With a scoff, he pushed against the edge of the teak-wood table and left his chair for the ocean. He had been in Pelican town for more than a year and his labors have yet to come to fruition. There were simply far too many ideas skimming past his mind and not a single one had stuck long enough to reach its apex.

Heading outside, he hears the chittering of sea birds that greeted him in tandem with the growing bodily pains resulting from hours of writing contorted. The sand beneath his bare feet crunched dully with every step that he took towards the shoreline and stopping a few paces before the nearest saturated line of sand. A sigh escaped his lips as he shoved a hand inside his pockets and closed his eyes to rest them and to shut everything else out. Even from behind his eyelids he saw the beautiful orange hues that bathed him from head to toe.

The sand beneath his feet, the crashing waves, the cries of creatures, and the warm golden glow around him, made the moment picturesque. But at the same time, it was also grossly hollow. It reminded him of beatific platitudes of relatives and family friends that he could scarcely care about. Sometimes his mind wanders back to the past and he finds himself being covered by a suffocating smog. Doubts crept in his mind in the form of what ifs and maybes, specifically over his decision of pursuing writing instead of whatever confounding plans his parents had for him.

“Hey!”

A single word jostled him out of his mental monologue. The sensations that were starting to dull around him came back at a disorienting pace, but he recovered easily enough.

Elliott turned towards the source of the sound and saw the farmer jogging in his direction with a smile. Slung over their shoulder appeared to be a mail-bag that clacked louder and louder with every step. A courteous smile appeared on his features as he turned to face his unexpected visitor. The Farmer stopped at a respectable distance and grinned as they offered an uncommonly large and thick clam shell. It was as big as his fist.

“This is for me?” he asked rhetorically when he took it from their hand. “Marvelous!” A rehearsed smile bloomed from his face, one that he knows would make certain others swoon at the sight of.

The Farmer seemed rather pleased with the response despite Elliott simply feeling a vague sense of pleasure at the mundane gift. He expected them to scamper off afterwards, like they usually do. But they stayed and looked at him expectantly this time. He looked at them curiously and the Farmer responded in kind.

“Try to flip it over,” they said, and so he did. On the other side of the shell was a curiously smooth and colorful underside. He had seen shells like these before but usually they were too broken and cracked to keep.

“Oh my. I’ve not seen shells like this. Where did you find this?” he asked, as he had never seen such a fine sample like it before. The grooves of the outer shell were rough and familiar like all the other clam shells that he had seen, but they were never pearlescent like this. The farmer panned their head to a side in an attempt to avert their eyes. He briefly wondered if they were blushing or if it was just the sun behind him.

“Oh, erm. I didn’t find it like that,” they started with a stutter. “I just found a good looking shell and sanded it down. Most shells have that shine. You just need a bit of elbow grease for it and someone to believe that there’s something underneath it all,” they finished with their eyes lowering and their earlier smile turning into something more shy. Elliott was stunned. He never knew that such things rested beneath their dull white layers.

“Ah. I see. Well, my thanks. I would have never thought that such things were hidden beneath plain sight,” he tried to chuckle to brighten the mood and the Farmer seemed to do the same.

“You know,” he started, his mind taking a moment longer to catch up with his mouth. “I wish there was someone like that back in my hometown.” It was too late to back down. Elliott felt the need to continue since the Farmer was looking at them with a quizzical gaze that he found himself feeling giddy over.

“Being a writer has been my childhood dream. That’s why I live out here by myself to help me focus on writing.” He was not sure where this was going, but he found himself leading the Farmer back to his shack.

“They said that I could not be an exception in a sea of thousands of miserable failed writers. Their pessimism was sickening!” An unpleasant memory dragged itself from the depths of his memories and he found himself scowling at the bitter taste of it.

“But I can see it in your eyes… faith and belief!” He beamed at the sight, then immediately deflated at the realization. “I’ve been… looking for someone like you…”

The Farmer offered a gentle smile and took an encouraging step towards him. Elliott smiled back just as softly. “My apologies. I hope I’ve not overstepped any bounds. I uh-” Elliott looked around for any plausible excuse for bringing the Farmer to such an intimate space. “Would you mind taking a look at this rose, here? I”m afraid it’s not doing so well,” he said with a hint of shame. He was never the best in certain things like bringing and keeping things alive and well. At the very least, plants in particular.

The Farmer seemed rather amused at his words and passed by him to look at the small pot by his writing desk. A small ghost of a smile appeared on his lips once more as he watched the Farmer study the struggling plant.

“Say,” he said unthinkingly. “What kinds of books do you read?”


End file.
